Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)
“We’ll continue to monitor her. I want to keep her on oxygen a little longer. I think she’ll recover fine. Like I said, she needs to rest, and she’ll probably need to talk to someone.” She glances at her chart again. “She’s…a singer? In the middle of a tour, someone said?”
“She is.”
“Well, I don’t think she’ll be able to go back on the road right away. Don’t let anyone talk her into it before she’s ready.” She pauses and peers up at me, her lips thin, as if she regrets the last comment.
“Shelby’s not easily talked into stuff but I’ll make sure no one pressures her.”
Relief softens her professional-doctor expression. Maybe she thought I was an overbearing manager-boyfriend or something. “Good. That’s good. Does she have any other family?”
“Her mom’s on her way from Texas. She should be here later this evening.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. It will help her to have some familiar faces around that she trusts.”
“Some of my brothers are coming down from New York as well.” Might as well warn the doctor that in a few hours, her waiting room will be full of even more Lost Kings.
Instead of the dirty look I expected, her gaze drops to my VP patch and she smiles. “Well, that should certainly help her feel safe. I understand the police haven’t caught the person who abducted her yet.”
“Not yet.” I adopt a more serious expression. “No one knows where he is.”
Chapter Nine
Shelby
Ow.
Old socks line the inside of my head. Empty socks. Flapping in the breeze on a clothesline. Like my head’s no longer attached to my body.
Cool, fresh air floods my nose. The rhythmic inhale and exhale of my breathing centers and grounds me.
My body aches.
Where am I?
I reach into my memory, trying to pull something loose.
The box.
That man put me in a damn cage.
Anger burns somewhere distant in my mind. I’m too exhausted to expend a lot of energy on any emotion.
Painfully slowly, my fingers curl against something scratchy but yielding. Not the hard, unforgiving bottom of my trunk or the cage. I wiggle my toes and something loose flaps against my feet.
Where’d my boots go?
Rooster. Rooster. Rooster.
I remember a dream of him holding me. Speaking to me. Freeing me from the box.
Was it a dream? Hallucination? Wishful thinking?
Shoot, I hope I’m not dead.
“Miss Morgan,” a gentle female voice says. “I’m Doctor Landry. You’re safe now. You’re in the hospital.”
Something gentle brushes against my hand. I hook my fingers around it and squeeze. At least, I think I’m squeezing. I feel weaker than a kitten abandoned by her momma cat.
“That’s good. Can you squeeze my hand again?”
It takes some effort, but I grasp her cool fingers even tighter.
“Excellent.”
Hot itchiness inches over my chest and down my arms. I’m too weak to scratch at it and end up moaning instead.
“Thank God.” That’s Greg. Is he here too?
My mouth is so dry, my lips so cracked, I barely whisper, “Logan?”
Something brushes against my arm. “Right here, chickadee. Don’t worry about anything. Just rest.”
How long have I been out of it? How many shows have I missed? Is the tour over? Did I miss the whole thing? Did they go on without me? Replace me?
Each question drifts through my mind but I can’t latch onto any one long enough to voice it out loud.
“I’ll let Trent know she’s coming around,” Greg says.
Peeling my eyes open is a slow, painful process.
White.
White walls. Green privacy curtains. White tile.
A hospital.
I close my eyes again.
Did I imagine the cabin? Running for the trees? The cage?
No. It happened. All of it.
I struggle to open my eyes again and focus. “How did you find me?”
The oxygen mask muffles my words. Rooster squeezes my fingers gently. “We can talk later. The doctor wants you to rest. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
That’s nice.
I drift for a while.
Someone pokes and prods at me. Rudely lifts my eyelids.
“Cut that out.” I try to swat the hand away but I’m too tired.
Feminine laughter. “She’s doing better than I expected.”
Gee, thanks.
More poking.
I cough and try to sit up so I can show this person I’m fine and they should leave me alone. But I’m too tired.
“Your body needs rest, Ms. Morgan.” This voice doesn’t sound as nice as the earlier one. Where’d the nice lady doctor go?
“Stop poking me then,” I mutter.
Another soft chuckle. “I’ll be back to check on her later.”
“Thank you,” Rooster says.
Time passes. I can’t tell how much. Some noises filter into the room. Other times I’m drifting on a soft wave for long stretches of time.
My arms itch, but when I try to scratch them I get tangled in tubes and wires. Someone stills my hands. Firm fingers rub something soothing on my itchy skin. The uncomfortable prickling fades.
Sometime later, I peel my eyes open and realize Rooster’s still in the chair next to my bed. He’s quietly watching over me and when our eyes meet, a faint smile ghosts over his lips.